The Great Morporkian Pastime
by samvimes
Summary: The City Watch and the University go up against each other in the Discworld's first-ever baseball game...


It is my opinion that one of the most entertaining activities in the   
universe is explaining native athletics to foreigners. Having been on   
both sides of the explanation ("So what the hell is the deal with   
rugby?" "Tell me again how many balls they get before they walk?")   
I think I can say that with some little impunity. Try it sometime.   
I guarantee you'll laugh.  
  
Here's the Discworld's first encounter with a grand old game that has  
more quirks than Nobby's personality, and was one of the first things  
I learned about life in America. I hope you enjoy.   
  
Thanks to Mary, as always, for the beta, and for catching me out in  
not only typos, but names and jobs as well.   
THE GREAT MORPORKIAN PASTTIME  
  
Baseball is almost the only orderly thing in a very unorderly world.   
If you get three strikes, even the best lawyer in the world can't   
get you off. -- Bill Veeck, White Sox owner  
  
Astronomers tell us -- usually whether we want to know or not -- that   
there are billions of stars in our universe. They clump up together in   
galaxies, possibly because of Physics, possibly because they're lonely,   
probably because someone's mentioned two-dollar mixed drinks.  
  
Billions of stars, as many as there are grains of sand on the beaches of   
the Earth, each with planets, or comets, or at the very least a damn fine   
supernova in the planning stages.   
  
And that's just our universe alone. It doesn't take into account all the   
parallel and parasite and not-quite-there dimensions, all the improbable   
and unlikely universes just waiting to crack through.  
  
It makes a man feel small, thinking about it. But there are some   
comforts. Beds are pretty comfortable. The pizza's not bad. They've   
finally gotten round to inventing the toaster oven, one of nature's most   
perfect appliances. You can get vodka in several flavors.   
  
And, of course, no matter how many worlds there are or who inhabits them,   
there's one universal truth: There are only so many things you can do   
with a ball and a stick.  
  
***  
  
"Explain it to me again."  
  
Sam Vimes stood in the grass, just outside the dirt diamond that marked   
the ruins atop the Tump, an ancient and mysterious hillock which, if the   
city ever came to its senses, would be prime real-estate. He scratched   
his head, ruffling his short-cropped hair in thought.   
  
"It's all mystical numbers and outs and ins and that," said Mustrum   
Ridcully. "I don't pretend to understand it myself, but the lads are dead   
set on it."  
  
Vimes ducked a small white ball that went whizzing past his head. "Mine   
too. Why we're here, isn't it?"  
  
"I'm here because they promised a free lunch for the..." Ridcully looked   
down at a writing tablet in his hand. "The ump...?"  
  
"Ump-hires," Vimes answered. "Our Carrot says it's a Klatchian word."  
  
"Klatchians invent it, then?"  
  
"I didn't think so. Don't really know. Keeps everyone out of trouble,   
that's the main thing," replied the Watch Commander. He shaded his eyes   
and swept the field of the Ruins, where several men were throwing balls  
and running. "Oi, Ping!" he shouted.  
  
"I've got a mint around here somewhere -- " Ridcully began.   
  
"/Corporal/ Ping," Vimes said reproachfully.   
  
The Corporal tossed another small white ball to one of his team-mates,   
and ran up to his Commander. The Duke of Ankh and the Head of Known   
Wizardry exchanged an amused look.  
  
Ping had fashioned a sort of uniform for his team out of second-hand   
Watch regalia and what looked like football equipment. He wore a helmet   
of the kind known as 'round-head' because it made its owner look like he   
had half a bowling-ball on, with one end beaten out into a sort of curvy   
brim that kept the sun out of his eyes. He had on the traditional shirt and   
britches of the Watch, without the sword-belt or breastplate, but with   
his name and an apparently random number blazoned across the back.   
His boots had spikes beaten into them.  
  
"Morning, sir!" he said enthusiastically. "Great day for a ball game!"  
  
"Is it?" asked Vimes. "You've got something on your face, Corporal."  
  
Ping's hand went to his cheeks, which were smeared with a black streak   
below each eye. "Corporal Cheery did it, sir. She says it makes us look   
more sportsmanlike. Did you read over the rules I gave you?"  
  
"More or less. I had a few questions -- "  
  
"Good morning, Commander, Archchancellor!"  
  
The three men turned to face the newcomer, who was apparently hidden   
behind a pile of striped cloth.   
  
"Morning, Stibbons," said Ridcully, as the young wizard emerged from   
behind the fabric. He wore what Vimes had come to view as the Wizardly   
version of Ping's outfit; a pointy hat with only the front brim   
remaining, a pinstriped wizard's robe that stretched almost all the way   
to the ground and was covered with marking similar to Ping's shirt, and   
likewise spiked boots.   
  
"We brought these for you," said Ping, accepting an object from Stibbons   
and handing it to his Commander, who regarded it as if it was a   
particularly explosive swamp dragon.  
  
"We're supposed to wear this?" he asked. Someone had painted an old   
breastplate in black and white strips, and attached a cape, like the one   
he normally wore, in similar unflattering monochrome. Ridcully was already   
struggling into an overcoat-style robe of the same stuff.  
  
"Got to show willing, Commander," said Ridcully, Errant Sportsman. Vimes   
sighed and unbuckled his breastplate. The Watch team, throwing the ball around  
the field, cheered when they saw him donning the ridiculous costume.   
  
"So, Ping," he continued, allowing the Corporal to buckle him up in the   
back, "let's run through this again."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"There are nine innings?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"But each inning is divided in half. So there's really eighteen."  
  
"Sort of, sir."  
  
"And for each half of an inning, one team is batty?"  
  
"Batting, sir."  
  
"Which means one man gets up and swings that stick at one of the little   
white balls," Vimes continued. "And if he hits it, he gets to try to get   
on base, which are the little white things. But if he gets hit /by/ it after   
he's hit it -- "  
  
"Tagged by it, sir, after the unfortunate accident with Constable Huge."  
  
"Going to be all right, is he?"  
  
"Soon as he remembers who he is, I'm sure," Ping said confidently.   
  
"So the players in the field can tag him with the ball," Ridcully put in.   
"What's to stop 'em each having a ball?"  
  
"There's only one allowed."  
  
"Ah. And it's the Jug's job to throw the ball so that the one who's batting   
can hit it?" Ridcully asked.  
  
"Pitcher, sir, I think you'll find," said Ponder.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Pitcher, not jug."  
  
"What's the difference?"  
  
"A jug has a lid, I believe," said Ping politely.   
  
"And the point of the game is to run around tagging the little white bits   
without getting tagged by the little white ball, and the one who gets the   
most people to do that wins the game? After the requisite eighteen half-  
innings?" asked Vimes, watching Reg Shoe try to throw the ball without his   
hand going along with it. The zombie had created a large extra leather   
glove that was apparently for catching the ball in; he possibly should have   
made one for throwing as well.   
  
"And the innings change when there are three outs," said a new voice.   
Corporal Ping went pale. The other three, rather more used to the   
Patrician's sudden appearances, paid it little mind.  
  
"Morning, Lordship," Vimes grunted.   
  
"Hallo, Mr. da Quirm!" Ponder cried. "Come to watch the game?"  
  
"Good morning, Mr. Stibbons. Yes, the game, I quite look forward to   
it," said Leonard da Quirm, tagging behind Lord Vetinari. "It was   
originally supposed to be an assembly-line method for creating chair   
legs, you know. I'm so glad to see someone is enjoying the results."  
  
The Patrician poked at the dirt of the Ruins with his walking stick,   
curiously, standing next to Leonard da Quirm like a thin man's shadow   
attached to the wrong person.   
  
"Good morning, Commander, Archchancellor. We meet again, Mr. Stibbons.   
And this is young Corporal Ping, is it not? Captain of the Watch team?"  
  
"The Woolly Sox, sir," stammered Ping. Vetinari remained silent. "It's   
our team name, sir. On account of our socks. But spelled with an 'x'."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"And you know Mr. Stibbons, head of the Wizard's team," Ridcully said,   
taking pity on the corporal.   
  
"The Pointees," said Stibbons.  
  
"On account," Vetinari said slowly, "of your hats, Mr. Stibbons?"  
  
"Very good, sir!"  
  
"Yes, it's amazing how I do it," drawled the Patrician. He noticed that   
Leonard had wandered over to the players, and was apparently testing the   
laws of physics with the Bat, which was actually not a Bat at all but a   
Stick, Vimes recalled.  
  
"I believe I had best go stifle Leonard's innate curiousity. Excuse me,   
gentlemen," he said, and made his way across the field, in an attempt to   
stop the genius before he devised a way of destroying the city by means   
of a stick and a small white ball.  
  
"You're to be home-plate ump-hire, sir," said Ping, leading the way   
towards the rather larger white plate -- stolen from the Watch canteen,   
Vimes noticed -- that denoted 'home'. "You remember what I said about   
strikes and balls?"  
  
"If he swings at it and misses, or if it's over the plate and he doesn't   
swing, it's a strike," Vimes repeated dutifully. "If it's not over the   
plate and he doesn't swing, it's a ball."  
  
"And when you get four balls, you get to walk."  
  
"Yes, you'd have to, wouldn't you?" Vimes asked. He heard Ping snigger.   
"So why'm I back here standing around, while Ridcully's got to be out in   
the field running about?"  
  
"Well, sir...we sort of...you make more of the calls sir, and you don't   
know how to turn people into small animals when they disagree with you,   
and you're more used to being yelled at," Ping said. "Plus everyone   
knows the Archchancellor never plays fair."  
  
"And I do?" asked Vimes.  
  
"Well...sort of.../more/ fair, anyhow."  
  
***  
  
Vimes had often thought that if you lived in Ankh-Morpork and you really  
wanted to know what was going on in the heads of its citizens, there was   
no better, more reliable barometer of public sentiment than the Watch.   
And he remembered Ridcully once saying that you could tell when high   
magical charges were around, because the Wizards were the first to start  
acting really barmy. It was unsurprising that the Discworld's first   
baseball game was between these two teams.   
  
He'd rather thought Carrot would have wanted to play, but the young  
Captain's passion was for football, and so he was content to stand as   
Announcer, which Vimes took to be a sort of public-relations officer   
between the players and the people watching from the hastily-erected   
stands behind home plate.   
  
It really was amazing. Nobody, least of all the Ump-hires, had any kind of  
firm grasp on the game, which was typically intricate in the way only   
Leonard da Quirm's inventions ever were. But once you got everyone into   
position and sung the national anthem and set up the first team to bat,   
and once he'd called "PLAY BALL!" as you were apparently supposed to,   
everything seemed...official. Right. As though they'd been doing it for   
years. Vimes suspected magic, but he was enjoying himself too much to do   
anything about it.   
  
"And it's the Dean winding up for a pitch -- there's Fiddyment on second  
and Reg Shoe on third...sorry Reg...part of Reg Shoe on third, the rest   
inching towards home...here's the pitch..."  
  
Whizzzz, whump!  
  
"Strike!" Vimes called.   
  
"Come on, sir, have a heart," said Nobby, at bat, without turning around.  
  
"I had Igor remove it years ago," Vimes replied. "Don't swing when it's   
wide next time, you've got no strike zone at all."  
  
"Score is still eight to eleven, the Pointees leading...a second slam-bang   
pitch from the Dean..."  
  
Whizzz, whump!  
  
"Ball one!"  
  
"Jolly good, Sam!" called Lady Sybil, who liked to encourage where she   
could. Ping had given her a strange little triangular flag, with a pair of   
woolly socks sewn onto it, to wave.   
  
"The Dean's under pressure now -- if this is a hit, we could be looking at  
a tie game..."  
  
Wip, crack!  
  
Nobby actually hit the ball. Vimes was impressed.  
  
"It's high and long, going for the outfield -- we may have a home run on  
this one..."  
  
One of the wizards was running for it, but he tripped on his robe and   
stumbled just shy of catching the ball. The three Watchmen did their   
solemn rounds, and the crowd of spectators cheered. Vimes noticed that   
Leonard still had one of the baseballs, and was deep in conversation with  
the Patrician, their heads bent together over it.  
  
"Bottom of the ninth, two outs, and the score is tied!" Carrot called.   
"The Dean's under pressure...and it's Dorfl up to bat!"  
  
Dorfl lumbered to the plate, the bat looking like a matchstick in his   
hands. He scooped up some dirt and rubbed it on his boots; Vimes had seen  
the others do it, and was curious as to why, but apparently they didn't   
know either.  
  
"HOT DOGS! GET CHORE HOT DOGS!" Dibbler cried. People were buying them,   
too, despite the fact that he was actually announcing a possible ingredient   
in them. "Banged Grains! Souvenier Programs! You can't tell a wizard from a   
watchman without a program!"  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Vimes saw a dark shape purchase a bag of   
salted peanuts and seat itself on an aisle.  
  
I SAY, the shape observed, THIS IS REALLY RATHER FUN, ISN'T IT?  
  
He was so distracted that he almost didn't notice Leonard da Quirm crossing  
the dirt square.   
  
"A time out has been called by the Unseen University Pointees," Carrot   
announced. "It seems they're getting a little advice from Mr. da Quirm..."  
  
From here, it looked as though Leonard was showing the Dean how to hold the  
ball. Which was daft, how hard was it to hold a ball?  
  
Then Leonard gave them all a sharp little bow, trotted back to his seat, and  
looked triumphantly at Lord Vetinari.  
  
"The Dean's winding up...and the pitch -- "  
  
Vimes watched in amazement as the ball seemed to curve around Dorfl's   
swing.  
  
"What the bloody hell was that?" he asked Ponder Stibbons, who was catching.  
Ponder looked at the ball in amazement.  
  
"I don't know!" he said. "It wasn't magic. Leonard must have found some way  
to make the ball move in midair. A curvy-ball."  
  
"All right then, throw it back."  
  
Vimes lit a cigar and hunched over, watching the second pitch intently.  
  
"The Dean seems to have found a new secret weapon! He pitches -- "  
  
"STRIKE TWO!" Vimes called through clenched teeth. "Come on, Dorfl, hit the  
bloody thing."  
  
"I Will Try, Sir," Dorfl said. He stepped away from the plate, gave one or  
two experimental swings, and pointed. All eyes followed. Beyond the dirt  
diamond there was a tree growing in the outfield, with a couple of pigeons  
sitting on it.  
  
"He seems to be pointing to where the ball's going to fly...now let's see   
if he can make good on his promise!" Carrot called. "This is it, folks, the  
final chance for either team. The Dean looks nervous. He's going to pitch -- "  
  
Dorfl swung low and wide, aiming where the ball shouldn't ever be. There was  
a deafening crack. The ball described a beautiful arc through the air and   
disappeared in a shower of pigeon feathers.  
  
"I'll be damned," said Vimes, admiringly.   
  
***  
  
FIRST EVER BASEBALL "DYSK SERIES" A SUCCESS!  
-- Rocky, Sports Columnist  
  
More than half the city turned out last Sunday for the final game in the   
Dysk Series, held at the Ruins Stadium, rimwards of the city. For those of  
you who have been living under a rock for the past three months, the   
tournament scores went as follows:  
  
FIRST ROUND:  
  
Copperhead "Giants" vs. Thieves' Guild "Snicklers": 10 - 2 Giants.  
  
Assassins' Guild "Black Sox" vs. Unseen University "Pointees": Forfeit, Black Sox.  
  
Patrician's Palace "Scorpions" vs. Bonk "Mild Bandits": 13 - 12 Scorpions.  
  
Genua "Marlins" vs. Vortex Plains "Big Rock Monuments": 2 - 0 Marlins.   
  
AMCW "Woolly Sox" vs. Seamstress' Guild "No Sox": 19 - 18 Woolly Sox.  
  
In the second round, the Giants and Black Sox went at it tooth and nail, and   
dagger and club and crossbow too, but the Black Sox emerged victorious to   
continue onwards and defeat the Scorpions, who had previously won an easy game   
against the Genua Marlins. The tournament leader Woolly Sox, led by Corporal Ping,   
waited to see who would go up against them in the Dysk Series as the No Sox and   
Black Sox grappled for the lead.  
  
Finally, it was the match of the season, the Assassins' Guild Black Sox versus  
the City Watch Woolly Sox. Every sports fan in Ankh-Morpork wanted to be at the  
historic game. The Black Sox were favoured to win, their guild reputation   
preceding them, but the brave Boys in Brown took no notice, and were pleasantly  
surprised by the Black Sox's sense of fair play. The captain of the team, Prince   
Teppic of Djelibeybi, attributes this to the guild's strict Honour Code: "We may   
kill people for a living, but we always give them a fair chance," Captain Teppic  
told the /Times/. "We wouldn't dream of playing dirty in a /game/."  
  
The Black Sox sense of honour may have led to their downfall, as the Boys in   
Brown handily took an early lead. In the tenth half-inning, Reg Shoe was forced  
to withdraw as the team's star pitcher, having thrown out an elbow, and   
third-basewoman Cheery Littlebottom was called in as replacement. To everyone's  
surprise, Watch Commander Samuel Vimes took third base, and proceeded to punch   
an Assassin in the head when he tried to steal it, calling the game temporarily  
to a stop while Ump-hire Slant ordered him off the field.   
  
Play having resumed with constable Fiddyment replacing the benched Commander,  
the Black Sox put up a fair fight, but all for nothing: the final score,   
announced in cheerful tones by Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, was Black Sox   
9, Woolly Sox 12. Maybe next year, Lord Downey.   
  
END 


End file.
